Kneel
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Bolg overpowers Legolas at Laketown and drags him, bleeding and at knife point, back to Mirkwood. It is Thranduil who must pay the price, or watch his son die.
1. Kiss

**Warnings: Blood and language.**

* * *

He had not expected to kneel when he woke up that morning.

Thranduil is the Elvenking. He had not kneeled even to his own father, just as he does not make Legolas kneel to him. Greenwood is theirs, connected, pulsing, breathing; they are equal with it, and the forest does not bow to anyone.

He is kneeling now.

If he'd had time, he would have been angry at Legolas for letting the situation escalate so; for allowing an Orc to overpower him and drag him, half-limping and bleeding, back to Greenwood's halls. And the guards had let him through, because even they could not make a shot perfect enough to ensure that, if the Orc died, the knife pressed tightly to Legolas's neck wouldn't slice right through it.

Their hearts are beating in tandem; too fast, too desperate. Legolas is breathing heavily, but Thranduil is barely inhaling. As if, by not breathing, he can box his humiliation inside his chest and squash it out of sight. His pride has been sorely tested, and it will be tested further. He must only bear it out for as long as it will take for help to avail itself of them.

"You call that kneeling?"

The Orc – the name Bolg is distasteful even in Thranduil's thoughts – has one blind eye like an egg swivelling in the socket. That makes two of them. Thranduil has to turn his head to see him and his son at the same time. He hopes it's not noticeable.

"You call _that _kneeling?"

Thranduil's legs are pressed against the floor, his toes curled and crushed in his fine boots as he kneels at the bottom of his throne. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his guards, ready to strike, but not daring. Their prince is in too much danger – his _son _is in too much danger – and Thranduil knows he must play for time, until Bolg relaxes, and he can be overpowered. And he will have to be overpowered by physical strength alone; the Orcs are not stupid, and every guard has been relieved of his or her weapons.

Thranduil inclines his head. "Please, do specify."

He puts bite in the words, but not enough to antagonise Bolg beyond the point of no return. The Orc growls.

"You are tall, Elf-King. I want you shorter. Get on the floor, and kiss it."

Thranduil feels his stomach twist. He's killed out of sheer pride before now; shame is as greater motivator as fear, and he has never seen any problem in letting his pride be known. Which is why Bolg is doing this. Which is why he has his son. Which is why he has to wrench his pride away, lean forwards on his elbows and kiss his own floor. At least it's clean.

"Get up."

He pushes himself to his knees, but before he can stand, Bolg is speaking again. He has a voice like broken glass.

"Kneel."

"I am kn-"

"Kneel, properly."

Thranduil presses his nose to the floor a second time. His ears are stinging with humiliation. He can imagine his guards turning to each other and raising eyebrows. There will be talk of this for years. Hundreds of years, if they let him stay on the throne that long. They will not, after today. They will see his weakness, and they will find new leaders.

It is worth it, he tells himself, nose going cold against the floor. It is worth it for Legolas.

"Up."

Thranduil straightens, but does not attempt to get to his feet. He stays on his knees. Bolg grunts in satisfaction. He has handfuls of Legolas's hair wound around his thick wrist, the knife angled under his jaw. One shudder, and it will go through the skin like a fish bone through butter.

"You will stay there, Elf-King." Bolg turns to the two, scrappy, Orcs that accompany him and grunts something in his own tongue. One of them steps forward, a jagged knife jumping from his belt to his hand. Thranduil does not allow himself to flinch. He stares ahead. If he is to die, he will keep up appearances to the end. His guards, he can see, are shuffling as much as they can get away with, getting into improvised formation. He resists a smile. Good. They have not yet given up on him. They think he is playing along.

Which he is, he reminds himself. He is kneeling only to gain time. He is not _obeying_, he is acting.

The thought feels hollow. His conviction is sapped, and after such a short space of time. He is disappointed in himself.

The knife is brought to his blind side; he cannot see where it goes or what it is doing, he only knows it does not hurt. A filthy hand drags a handful of his hair back and out, stretching his scalp to the limit, until he thinks he must move his shoulders or have it pulled out. The pressure is released. A section of his hair falls around his knees. It's so light that some of it is blown sideways by Legolas's breath.

The knife moves the other side, and the cut is repeated. He sees the blade flash at the corner of his vision this time, but he still refuses to flinch. Instead, he angles his head and looks Bolg in the eye, then lowers his gaze to his son. Legolas looks horrified, but he's frozen; he cannot move, unless he wants to commit suicide, and he is sensible. He will not move.

Another hunk of hair falls and tickles Thranduil's ankles. The majority of his hair is gone; light as it is, he can tell when it is not there. He cannot remember a time when his neck had not been covered by it, but he does not try, because the knife is snickering at his very scalp as the Orc greedily tries to rip the last wisps from his head. He feels a sting, and blood trickles down his neck. Then more. And more.

"Adar…"

Thranduil shoots Legolas a look that silences him before he can get himself into more trouble. It is difficult to muster a commanding attitude with his bloody hair lying in rivers around his legs, but he must try. His guards have passed out of his narrowed field of vision, but he dares to incline his head, as if he is shaking the blood from his shoulders, to see what they are doing. Nothing, it seems. But, of course, that is how it is supposed to seem. He is still not breathing with any perceptibility. He wonders if that disturbs the Orcs, and decides it probably does not. It's doubtful they care enough to notice.

"Not going to let him talk to me, then?" Bolg bares his teeth. "How about I take a bite of him? Will you let him talk then?"

Thranduil says nothing. Bolg jerks the knife at Legolas's throat, and blood patters to the floor. A precious waste, but far from fatal. For now.

"Talk then, Prince. Say what you want to say."

Legolas looks like he might have bowed his head, if the knife had let him. "I have nothing to say."

"Nothing? After all that fighting? After you followed me, desperate to catch up? Pity." Bolg laughs and jerks his head to the small group of guards. "Your Prince is _very_ stupid. I hope you realise that. I would have thought he'd never heard of a trap before, the way he rode into it. But there you have it. Princes and kings. They're all fools."

Thranduil swallows so hard he feels his throat sting, and there is a general gasping of air as his guards wait for him to retaliate, all the time knowing he cannot. The worst of it is, there is no-one holding him down; even the Orc with the knife has long ago edged away. Thranduil is bound by his own self-control.

"Nothing? You're a quiet pair, all of a sudden, aren't you? Say something, Elf-King, or I find your son's windpipe and tear it in three places."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"And yet, you do. Keep talking."

He does not know what to say, or how. He cannot antagonise, and he cannot grovel. Life hangs on knife-point, balanced on the tip of one of his fingers. He cannot let it fall.

"I will. I will keep talking. I will keep talking. I will keep-"

"No repetition. Go on. Let's see if you can do it." Bolg leans forward. The saliva gathered between his teeth is almost green in colour. "Talk, without lying, without repetition. I _dare_ you."

"This is my hall. I am Thranduil, of Greenwood."

"Mirkwood."

"Mirkwood." The name makes him want to gag. "I have five fingers on each hand, and ten toes. My eyes are open. I had fish for breakfast."

"When did you last piss?" Bolg is merciless. Thranduil had not expected anything less of him. "Go on."

"This morning." His cheeks are red with humiliation, raw and burning without his hair to cover the blush.

"How long for?"

"I don't know." The knife twists against Legolas's chin, and Thranduil hastily re-words; he's sure the answer is half a lie, but there is no time to think. "Thirty seconds."

"Were you drinking last night?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Two glasses. No, three."

"Close one." Bolg snorts. "Do you need to piss now?"

Truth is, he does. His bladder is beginning to take on a bruised, heavy, feel, but the thought of answering in the affirmative is one humiliation he cannot take, not in front of his guards. "No."

"I'll hold you to that. Piss yourself, and I'll kill him. What was the last thing you killed?"

Thranduil narrows his eyes and tightens his jaw. "An Orc."

"How did you kill him?"

"I beheaded him."

Bolg tuts. "That wasn't very nice of you."

"I do not live for you to think me nice."

A laugh that makes his eardrums shake in his head, and Bolg is suddenly snorting so violently Thranduil wants to shout a warning; there are cuts appearing on Legolas's neck, in short, random bursts like pepper grains on meat.

"Very good, Elf-King, very good. But not what I wanted to hear." Bolg jerks his head to the Orc with the shaving-knife. "All that hair is getting on my nerves. Make him eat it."

Thranduil has no time to react before his head is gripped in a lock; a lock he could have broken out of, if he'd been allowed to, but he is not, because his son is still bleeding.

"Do not make me ask you," Bolg says.

The floor is completely out of Thranduil's field of vision, so he has to feel around the back of his knees for strands of his hair and bring them to his mouth without seeing them.

* * *

**It's been a little while since I read LoTR and The Hobbit, but the Thranduil of the movies really piqued my interest. I've been using an online Elvish dictionary – apparently Ada = daddy and Adar = father, but please correct me if I'm wrong. **

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	2. Eat

**Warnings: Graphic description of a past injury. **

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His hair tastes of straw, and it tickles his throat as he forces it down. It's too light, like feathers and sinew, and it tangles in his canine teeth; he can't reach up and pull it away without appearing weak, so he goes on swallowing and letting it tangle, until his mouth feels like a net and he's coughing up more than he can force down.

The bloody bits are easier to eat, because they're heavier and stay together when he swallows, even though they taste of iron on a battlefield. He doesn't know how much he is forced to eat before he's told he can stop, but it's enough to make him vomit into his own mouth. He swallows, vomits, and swallows again. Not a single drop passes his lips; more of it is hair than liquid. Legolas is looking at him in shaky dismay. Bolg is laughing.

Thranduil's life has become half a wreck in the space of an hour, and it makes him shudder.

"Cold, Elf-King?"

"No."

"No, that's right." Bolg shifts position, bringing himself down to Thranduil's level, dragging Legolas with him and nearly taking off his nose with the knife in the process; Thranduil supresses a wince, and a ripple of movement goes through the guards. "Elves don't feel the cold so much, do they? What about heat, though?"

Thranduil feels his spine clench as his head snaps up. Stupid, but involuntary. Bolg inclines his head. For a moment, he looks almost elfish, or human, in the way he moves. And then he opens his mouth, and the effect is ruined by his teeth. There are scars on his tongue that stretch when he speaks.

"Ah. And you thought you hid it so well. From your enemies, from your friends, you hid it." The knife twitches against Legolas's collarbones. "Ask him what I'm talking about."

"What is he talking about?" Legolas's voice is totally flat. Close up, Thranduil can see his nose has been bleeding. There are crystals of blood rusting on the skin of his upper lip and philtrum.

Thranduil remains silent. Bolg growls. "Tell your son. Tell him." He smiles. "Or even better, show him. I know you can."

"You are misinformed."

"I am not!" Bolg jerks the knife suddenly, pressing the point up into Legolas's chin. Legolas lets out an involuntary whimper, and Thranduil is suddenly drenched in icy terror. The room vanishes; his vision narrows onto the blade, and the fact that if it's given another second it will burst through muscle and go straight into Legolas's mouth. It won't kill him, but it could cut out his tongue.

"Alright!" Thranduil's knees are trembling against the floor. "Alright."

The knife retracts; as it pulls out of the skin, it breaks it further. Legolas is looking at the ceiling, out of pain or out of respect, it isn't clear. It doesn't matter. He will be hard-pressed not to notice what Thranduil is about to do. The guards will see. Bolg, of all the vile creatures, will see. If they get out of this alive, the shame might kill him.

Removing the illusion always hurts. The heat of that day had been enough to tear the flesh from Thranduil's jaw and cheekbones; the pain had been too intense for him remember much, but he remembers enough, and shaking the mirage loose feels like ripping his face all over again. When it's done, he feels no different – he always senses the air on his teeth through the gaps in cheek, always stares unseeingly out of his one, milky eye – but to know others he has not chosen are looking upon it makes him want to sink to the floor and cease to breathe.

Legolas is not looking, but the guards are; they can hardly stop watching, because if they do, they might miss an opportunity to end this. Thranduil pointedly turns to Bolg and raises his head. Kneeling, his eyes come up to Bolg's hips, but he can make his gaze reach further, much further. He imagines it stretching to the Orc's head, finding his brain, and pinching the nerves shut, one by one shutting them off and killing Bolg with a single look. But he cannot do it. There are too many things he cannot do right now.

Bolg is grinning. Perhaps such an injury is beauty to him.

"Very good, Elf-King. 'Misinformed'? I should say I was. There were rumours, yes, but not ones of such…ruin."

Thranduil can hear the past ringing in his ears, but he realises Bolg had not expected this. He had expected a small scar, had expected something minor with which to exploit Thranduil's vanity. Can Thranduil use the fact? Most likely not. If he'd realised, he would have revealed only a quarter of the injury. But he had not been able to risk it, with his son in so much danger.

Bolg, although he does not release Legolas, brings his right arm forward. The left still has Legolas's head in a vice grip, the knife pressed into the jaw. In the corner of his eye, Thranduil sees one of the guards shift, and he shakes his head, minutely. Any involuntary movement on Bolg's part will split open Legolas's neck jaw-to-jugular. The guard sees it, and stills.

Bolg's hand reaches for the scar and presses one, filthy finger into it, through Thranduil's skin, through the holes in his cheek and into his mouth. It feels abhorrent enough for Thranduil to want to bite; he has to reign back every inch of his pride, and he has miles of it, as well as force himself not to groan in pain and disgust as the finger brushes his tongue. Legolas is still not looking; he has closed his eyes, though Thranduil does not know how much he might have seen before he did.

Something tickles at the back of Thranduil's throat and makes him gag as Bolg finds what can only be a strand of hair and pulls it out, brushing against still-tender nerves and exposed flesh. "What have we here?" Bolg says as he holds the hair up. Orcs are not build for delicacy, and he holds it clumsily. Thranduil hopes he will drop it, and have to scrabble to pick it up, but he does not. "Answer me, Elf-King. What do I have here?"

"A hair."

"Wrong."

Bolg grunts and the second of the smaller Orcs comes forward. Something passes between them that Thranduil does not understand, and then the hair is pushed back into his mouth, through his cheek, and round the long band of muscle that stretches like a bridge between the gaps adjacent to his nose. It's like having a snake fed onto his tongue. When it is done, the hair is wrapped around his cheek, and Bolg hands the two ends to the smaller Orc.

"It's a leash, Elf-King." Bolg grins. "I think it suits you." He jerks his head to the smaller Orc. "He looks restless. Take him for a walk."

The humiliation of before is nothing compared to this. The hair is strong, and it chafes as Thranduil's head is wrenched. He must crawl on his hands and knees, or have his veins break. Burned as his nerves are, he still feels the pain, fresh and blistering. His face has gone white with rage, his lips purple from being pressed so closely together. His robes tangle around his hands and feet and his head bleeds onto his knuckles and neck. His pride is threatening to burst through his spine; he has only to reach up, snap the hair, snap the neck of the Orc holding him, to end this.

He cannot, he tells himself. He cannot. There is greater pride in having his son live. There is-

"Enough."

The Orc lets go of the hair. Thranduil, before he can stop himself, reaches out and snatches it away. His breathing is picking up, but he supresses his rage and inhales only through his nose; he cannot do so quickly without pain, and if he has to starve himself of oxygen to prevent himself doing something rash then by his life, he will do it.

He's growing dizzy by the time Legolas breaks free.

Bolg has shifted position too much, too intent on Thranduil, and it's clear Legolas has not been idle. Forced as he has been from standing to sitting to crouching, he has wormed himself, not completely out of the path of the knife, but far enough toward the handle to escape without severe injury. Even Thranduil doesn't realise what he intends to do before it is done.

With a snarl, Legolas tears himself to the left, bringing up his shoulder and deflecting the knife off it as he ducks and skids forward, out of danger. The guards are instantly alert; the clicking of shoes on the floor comes only a second after Thranduil has raised himself to his feet and reached for Legolas, dragging his son behind him before Bolg can snatch out a hand and catch the back of his robes. Bolg roars.

The guards are coming forward now, hunting for the knives and weapons they had been relieved of and hastily snatching up arrows that had been snapped in two when the Orcs took them. The Orc behind them, who, Thranduil realises, must have been approaching unseen, falls with a growl. A second arrow bounces off Bolg's armour – the shaft, Thranduil can see, is only a third of the length it should have been – and then Bolg is upon them. The knife snickers through the air. Thranduil ducks and comes round, Legolas behind him, the two of them back-to-back and weaponless, hands raised.

The second smaller Orc is dodges the poor excuse for arrows the elves are using, but cannot completely outmanoeuvre a thrown knife. It burrows into his chest and he goes down. Blood has made the floor slippery. Bolg makes another charge and, unable to dive out of the way in time, Thranduil settles for pushing Legolas backward, out of danger. The knife is to his throat in an instant, an arm around his chest – he still has not regained his breath, and he feels choked. His vision spins.

"Kneel!" Bolg is roaring. He is trapped; he will not escape this. He will not be allowed to pull off his tricks a second time, not now the guards have a formed a line around them. He will die. This is over. The humiliation is over. "You. Will. Kneel. Every one of you. Or I will kill him."

They hesitate. But Thranduil, of all of them, will not kneel, not anymore, because Bolg has hurt his son, the boy he remembers shooting arrows made of twigs because he'd been too young for the real ones, with his hair caught in the branches of a tree, laughing, crying, both at once. And Thranduil will not forgive. Of the many things he cannot do, that is the foremost.

His position is better than Legolas's had been. He throws his head backward, out of the path of the knife and into Bolg's face, wishing he was wearing his crown because it might have taken the beast's other eye out, but satisfied it will put his throat out of range of the knife.

Only, Bolg is ready for it. As an arrow finds its mark in the Orc's head, he brings the knife, not up in a stab, as Thranduil had anticipated and prepared for, but sideways. The skin of Thranduil's neck breaks so quickly, he would have thought it were made of gossamer.

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**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	3. Bleed

**Warnings: Lots of blood, some gore. **

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Thranduil's instinct is to fall, but he does not, because that will only allow the life to leave him faster.

The feeling is as heady as if he'd drunk a barrel of wine in one gulp. He has not been breathing properly for the past hour, and now he finds he cannot. Blood is clogging his mouth and throat. His robes are soaked. The floor is dripping red and black, over the edges of the walkway and into the river below, carrying what is left of his hair with it.

He has to stop the bleeding. He has to bring his hands up and staunch it. But they're heavy, and he's tired, and he can't breathe, and…and…

His legs go out from under him, first one knee, and then other thudding onto the ground. When his body jolts, he feels the loose skin of his neck shudder. His mouth opens and shuts; he doesn't know whether he's trying to scream or call for help, but he can't do either. There is no pain, only fear. Fear will kill him, if he lets it. He can't. He is not dead yet – if he can just raise a hand, get the folds of his sleeve to his throat…

The effort required is phenomenal, and bringing his wrist to his neck forces him to support himself on one hand. The bunched robe slides off, soaking wet and heavy, his elbow trembles, and then he's down. Blood trickles between his teeth, out of the still-exposed wound on his face. Like worms. Like rivers. Like something far away and lonely and lost and dying.

Something dying. The word splits apart in his mind's eye and hovers tauntingly, buzzing in his ears. Something d…y…i…n…

A hand is to his neck before he can blink the letters away, fingers plunging beneaththe skin. His throat tickles and he bucks, smacking his head against the floor. His feet scrabble in his own blood as fear seizes him, crushing until he is sure his ribs will pop.

"Stay still."

The voice is very calm. Thranduil blinks, goes stiff, and turns his right eye lazily toward…is that Legolas? Relief shudders through him, and the sudden absence of terror leaves him limp and heavy. Legolas is not hurt. Blood has tangled in his hair, is soaking into his sleeves as he pushes his fingers further and pinches…something. Thranduil has lost track of what his son is doing. For the first time in his life, he awaits instructions.

"I'm going help you sit. It is going to hurt."

Thranduil tries to make a noise to show he understands, but all he can do is bubble and spit. Legolas brings a hand under his arms and pulls. The world spins. The pain is distant. He will feel it later. Although, 'later' may be too much to hope for right now. He is still dying. He hopes his son will not see him pass. He will hold out for as long as he can, to prevent that, and then if he must die, he will do it alone.

"I have hold of the cut. Do not move."

He does not. He has nothing to lose by obeying. Legolas holds him. Thranduil bleeds and bleeds, although he knows the amount is trivial in comparison to what he had lost in the first few seconds, bleeds until he hears footsteps and shouting – even that is calming after the Orc's foul bleating. A song. What he would give for a song, right now.

The only song he can find is in his own head. It becomes louder when he closes his eyes.

* * *

He tastes the blood as soon as he wakes, but not for long; he is very tired, and the song still buzzes in his ears. He is very tired. T…i…r…

* * *

He tastes blood. He goes back to sleep.

* * *

He tastes blood, but cannot go back to sleep. The fear has found him again, made him believe that his neck had only been a dream, and that Legolas had bled to death at his feet in his stead. He no longer knows what is real and what is not, but when he tries to turn his head pain explodes in his throat. He stops breathing, and does not start again until he passes out.

* * *

He tastes blood. He counts the letters in Legolas's name until he falls asleep again.

* * *

Thranduil tastes…nothing, at first. Then acid. His forehead creases as he tries to roll over, as he does every morning to wake himself up. He feels like he's slept for a year; his limbs are weak and stupid, his throat sore. Is he ill? Perhaps a little feverish. It is likely. He has been working hard lately to keep the perimeters of Greenwood secure. The dwarf, damn his hide, had escaped. And his son…his son…

He makes another attempt to sit, but a hand stops him. Thranduil's eye snaps open, and he jerks his head up. Pain flares at his throat and spreads to his shoulders and jaw; his neck has been sewn shut, as if bitten by hundreds of tiny ants. He chokes. The hand tightens on his shoulder, just as his eye focuses and he sees Legolas, half-out of a chair, blinking as if woken, lips pale and eyes heavy. He has a bandage around his shoulder.

"Sit, please. Be still."

_Stay still_.

"Please. I do not wish to see you hurt any further."

_It is going to hurt_.

Thranduil blinks, remembers, and wishes he hadn't. His neck feels unnaturally cold without the blood caked to it.

"I…" The sound is cracked and hopeless. He opens his mouth wider and tries again, but only a squeak comes out.

Legolas sighs. He looks very tired. "The healers said you might have some trouble speaking, for the first few days."

"I…"

"Do not try yet."

Thranduil frowns and shakes his head. He has things to say, too many things, but Legolas is already getting to his feet, turning away from him. Unable to speak, Thranduil reaches out a hand and takes his sleeve. He is weak, but he holds it tightly and pulls, dragging Legolas back into his seat. He wants to thank him for saving his life. He wants to ask if he is well.

"I am not hurt, Adar. You need not worry."

Thrnaduil would have rolled his eyes, if he'd had the energy; hurt or not, he will always worry. But he cannot find his voice. Legolas gets up again, pulls free, and leaves without a word. Thranduil slumps back onto the bed; if he'd been physically able, he would have gone after him. But he's too tired, too weak. He'll only fall.

* * *

Two days later the healers have stopped fussing, and Thranduil insists on returning to his private chambers. The solitude is welcome – he dislikes being constantly surrounded – but the one presence he wants seems to have made himself scarce. Thranduil sighs, picks at the food he'd sent for and found he can't eat because his muscles don't remember how to swallow, and gets to his feet. His head spins; the light-headedness he has been feeling is not aided by the loss of his hair, which leaves his scalp both sore and unnaturally weightless. He sits back down again, cursing to himself. He is weak and stupid and hopeless and no-one will tell him the truth about his son, about his subjects, about whether he is still considered a fit king.

He is not a fit king. He knows that. He has suffered such humiliation, and has not even come out of it physically unscathed.

The mirage over his face is back in place, and has been since he woke, but he knows it has been seen. His guards are loyal, but that does not mean they have not talked. The news will be in the forest by now, if not further.

It is not himself he cares for, but he knows Greenwood will suffer. When the news spreads that the king has bowed to a simple Orc, crawled on his hands and knees, begged…the hordes will come, and they will break through the defences one by one. And then…then…

Thranduil buries his face in his hands, feeling scar-tissue and old burns twitch under his palm. He is crying, but only from the eye he can see out of. He has not cried in so long, he can't remember if he has only ever wept out of one.

"Adar."

Thranduil snaps his head up, inhaling too fast and feeling the stitches in his neck flex. He coughs, tries to supress it and finds he cannot; he is red-faced and choking before Legolas comes to him and holds a cup of clear water to his lips. The tickling soreness subsides.

"What are you-" He swallows. His voice is high-pitched and reedy. But it is there, at last, poor as it is. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you." The bandage is gone from Legolas's shoulder. That is good. "We have much to talk about."

The truth of his statement cannot be denied. Thranduil indicates the chair opposite his own, and takes the opportunity to speak whilst Legolas is still in the process of sitting down.

"You cannot be seen here." He reaches for the water and gulps. "Soon, I will be disgraced. If you are to take my place, you must distance yourself from me, immediately." Legolas opens his mouth, but Thranduil holds up a hand. "Please. I want what is best for you and Greenwood more than I can describe. For yourself and for them, you must listen. You _must_ let them know that if our positions in that room were reversed, you would have stood firm to the Orcs."

"But that would be a lie!" Legolas bursts out, almost lifting out of his seat as he speaks. "I would have done no different. It is my fault you were forced to endure such a…situation. I will take due blame. I was angered and hasty, and I have come to offer an apology."

"Lie or not, you cannot afford not to tell it," Thranduil says, trying to be stern and finding it difficult with tears gathered in one eye and his voice cracking every other word. "Whether it is your fault is not something we have time to argue about. Soon, I must step down. Though you are young, I would wish for no-one else to take my place."

"You will not step down!" Legolas does get to his feet now; he seems to resist the urge to pace, but balances and bobs unevenly on his heels as he speaks. "Step down, and Greenwood will fall before the year is out."

"Not with your-"

"I am not ready!"

"I will aid you, if I am allowed."

"If you are allowed? Are you listening to yourself?" Legolas sits back down and folds his arms. "Greenwood is not starting a rebellion, Adar. Since your injury we have been turning anxious citizens away from the doors in a constant stream. It seems that your nearly dying has been hugely beneficial. They could have lost you, and none of them wants that – having it almost occur…it made them think about what is really good for them." A pause. "Though I wish it had not happened."

"Nor I." Thranduil sighs as he reaches for his water. His hands are trembling, but he is practiced at hiding it beneath his sleeves. "You are sure you do not wish to take my place?"

"I am certain."

Legolas's chin is set and stubborn. Thranduil feels a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He knows that chin – the chin of a young elfling who will get his way.

* * *

**Apologies (as always) for any medical inaccuracy; apparently there are real-life examples of people surviving their throat being cut. One hockey player lived, despite losing 1/3 of his blood, because the vein was pinched shut until stitches could be put in. I figure Thranduil, as an elf, could survive severe blood loss even without the kind of transfusions we can do today. **

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	4. Lie

Thranduil settles himself back in his chair, letting his eyes slip closed for a moment as he thinks. "We must lay plans."

"Plans?"

"If not for Greenwood, for those outside it. Any weakness in times such as these can be exploited; if anyone hears of this, it will put you in terrible danger. You are the most precious thing to me, but it does not help us if our enemies know that."

Thranduil trails off. He has built a reputation that is cold as ice, and he likes it that way. It is safer. He knows it is natural for a father's greatest weakness to be his children, but he has been careful not to make his feelings known outside Greenwood, or even outside his own family. If this spreads, he cannot bear to think of the consequences.

"Adar?"

Thranduil opens his eyes. "Mm?"

Legolas is leaning forward in his seat. "You looked like you were falling asleep."

"I was thinking." He is tired and he cannot deny it, but he is not about to fall asleep. Not now. "How much has Greenwood heard?"

"It is unclear. The Orcs are dead. I have personally spoken to the guards. Most were inclined to keep what they had seen to themselves, but…"

Thranduil raises an eyebrow. "But?"

"I cannot guarantee there will not be rumours. Many of the guards drink."

"Almost all, I should think," Thranduil says, smiling even though he feels like stones are tied to his teeth, heavy and exhausting. "What happened in the hall will become common knowledge soon enough. But, if the situation is as you say, the news will not immediately leave the forest." He nods to himself. "The details of what I was made to do are to be kept hazy enough for them to be dismissed as conjecture. You are to send trusted members of the guard about their daily life. All will have a different story. If the truth is scattered within our walls, it will be useless outside them."

Legolas nods. "There is the matter…" He swallows. "Of your past…injury. Those rumours will be harder to supress."

"You saw it?"

"I tried not to look. In the end, it was impossible not to." Legolas takes a deep breath. "Many here and beyond remember the time you went North. They will correlate it with the rumours they hear. It is not something we will be able to disperse with false stories."

"No, I am sure we will not." Thranduil sighs as he thinks. Options. His head is heavy. He cannot concentrate.

"I have an idea," Legolas murmurs.

"Go on."

"We will tell them you made the illusion to satisfy Bolg's curiosity. Bolg was insane; he would not have been content until you had shown him something. You created the injury to buy time."

Thranduil shakes his head. "The wound was tampered with. Touched." He has to supress a shudder as he reaches for his glass. Bile stings the back of his throat; he fancies he still brings up hair every time he coughs. The water does little to revive him, and he goes on with his voice cracking every other word. "I could, however, have heightened the effects of a far less serious injury, to lull Bolg into false security."

Legolas frowns. "What kind of injury?"

"The cheek." Thranduil dislikes the idea, but he cannot deny that his cheek had been the area most abused by Bolg and his 'leash'. He has to grit his teeth to supress his anger at the memory. "A simple ridge in the skin could have had something tied around it."

Legolas nods. "None of the guards were as close as I was; from their angle, it may not have been clear what Bolg was doing. By the time they got near there was so much blood that it was impossible to see underneath it." Legolas looks, for an instant, pale and thin. "Only your healers know the truth, and they will keep it to themselves."

"We need to be careful. If we announce such a story outright, it will be suspicious." Thranduil puts a finger to his chin and taps his thumb against his lips, thinking, thinking… "A council meeting can be arranged; there will undoubtedly be questions. When they ask, I will show an adjusted version of the scar to my advisors, and they will spread the news." He swallows. "I can tell them it was an illusion, but they may have to see some aspect of it to believe me. If we are to cement the lie, there is the matter of my eye to contend with."

Legolas flinches, and Thranduil feels something inside his stomach twinge as his son's line of sight drifts to the left. "I was hoping I had not seen correctly."

Thranduil's mouth twitches, but he does not smile in any true sense of the word. "I wish you had, but to tell you otherwise would be a lie."

"You never let me into your confidence about it."

"It is not that I did not trust you. I simply did not wish for you to know. You were young, when it happened. I did not want to scare you. And after that, I did not want you to lose your respect for me."

"Adar!"

Thranduil waves a hand. He does not want to dwell on his past choices now. "I must use my eye."

"How?"

Thranduil lowers his hand and lets it drop wearily into his lap. His fingernails have left imprints on his upper lip, like more stitches. He cannot think. He is tired, he is so, so tired…

Never before has he shirked his duties for his own health. He will not start now.

Thranduil's knees tremble as he pushes himself out of the chair, staggers a pace, and brushes off Legolas's concerned hand. He is fine. He is well and whole and he has no excuse to sit in a chair and simmer. He straightens. His vision blurs.

"Adar, you will overstrain yourself."

"There is an apple on the table beside my bed. Go to it."

Legolas hesitates. "The healers said you weren't to eat anything that could get stuck in your throat."

"I do not intend to eat it." Thranduil waves toward his bed. His vision is beginning to clear, but he does not think he can reach it himself. The mere thought of walking makes him want to sink to the floor. "Please."

Legolas passes out of his limited field of vision, and there is a soft thud as the apple is picked up. Thranduil motions with two fingers, conserving his energy. He is going to need it.

"Come forward, until you are level with me."

A shuffling noise. Legolas clears his throat. "Aren't I on the wrong side?"

"No." Thranduil looks forward. His vision halts at the closest side of the bed. There are several feet between it and himself; he cannot see any part of Legolas. "Now, throw it."

"I am sorry?"

Thranduil flexes his outstretched hand. "If this is to work, I will require your help. We will practice. When we do it in public, I will not be able to afford to miss."

Legolas throws the apple. Thranduil, with no idea of its position, listens, tries to catch it, and misses. How many seconds was it in the air? Less than two. He will remember that. Legolas picks up the apple. They try again. And again. And again, until Thranduil's vision is beginning to fade and his kneels feel like they're crumbling under his own weight. He does not miss every time, but he knows in his heart the successes are down partly to chance.

He cannot take a chance. Not now.

* * *

The smell of the feast holds little appeal to Thranduil, safe in the knowledge that he will not yet be able to eat half of the foods there. He has ordered fish especially for the celebration, and had a variety specially cooked in butter placed in front of his own seat. It will allow him to take normal-sized bites without coughing.

He knows he looks the part; his robes are brand new and shining and, as his hair has not fully grown back, he has had a very good wig made and fixed firmly to his scalp. Even thinking about it makes him want to gag with embarrassment, but he does not, because he is the king, and a king does not gag into his plate. He smiles. He accepts compliments, and returns them. He drinks plenty of water; though his voice is almost recovered, his throat is raw and unhappy.

The main dishes are cleared away, and fine bowls of fruit brought to the table. Thranduil has been very specific; the one in front of himself is not to have apples. The one in front of Legolas, who sits four spaces to his left, contains nothing but.

They have arranged for there to be no spoken warning, in case the ruse is too obvious. Thranduil cautiously reaches for his glass. As he does, he taps his fingernail against it, two times, in rapid succession.

He cannot see the apple, nor hear it in the hum of chatter, but he has practiced for so long he feels that he could catch it in his sleep. The fruit thuds into his palm, shudders, and rests. He brings it to his mouth as if nothing had happened, even though he knows the guests are watching.

Good. That is the point. Let them watch. Legolas claps his hands together and smiles when Thranduil turns to him, as if in high spirits. Slowly, everyone goes back to their plates.

Thranduil nibbles the apple and chews the tiny pieces for so long that they are nothing but mush when he swallows. The acidity is painful, but it does not matter.

The skin of his neck feels like a spider web. The scar will stay with him, but is far from the worst he has claim to.

* * *

**Originally this was intended to be a one-shot, but it pretty much ran away from me! Thranduil is tricky for me to interpret, so I'm hoping none of this is horribly done. I find him very interesting, even though he has so little screen time (and not all that much mention in The Hobbit book) and I'm hoping to write more involving him at some point, if this didn't fall flat on its face.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**The end. **


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